


Hurricane Sebastian

by solnyshka (littlesolnyshka)



Category: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesolnyshka/pseuds/solnyshka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he comes home drunk, she calls him Hurricane Sebastian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurricane Sebastian

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if there is anything I should work on :)

His friends are his friends and her friends are hers; they rarely go out in a group together, but she likes the side effects of him hanging out with his friends. Sometimes she wonders if it's moral to like it so much, that she likes knowing he's tipsy or even drunk, malleable under her hands. To her, it's probably a pay off for all of the shit in the house he's broken stumbling in their apartment door at 3am. The door frame. Her favourite coffee mug. Two cell phones. 

Once he brought home roses- well, a rose bush. Roots and all. He trailed dirt and leaves and thorns and petals all in the foyer of their building, the elevator, their hallways and left it in the kitchen sink, passed out on the couch at 2am and later crawled into bed looking sad begging for her eyebrow tweezers to pick the thorns out of his hands. "What have you learned tonight, darling?" She asks playfully, wearing his sweatpants and a tank top on his side of the bed, as he winces theatrically. 

"Don't steal from people's gardens," he sighed, droning as though he had been told not to ransack topiary from neighbours a million times before. He's asleep fully clothed in their bed within minutes, but she curls up under his sinewy arm, likes the way his tshirt smells like liquor and his sweat and his cologne and cigarettes. He murmurs in his sleep, strokes her waist, wakes up early like he always does when he's hungover, she's woken up by his mouth on the back of her neck and soon her tank top is hiked up above her breasts and they fuck lazily, him behind her and her still curled up in his arms, slowly, half asleep. His fingertips curve around her hipbone, pulling her back onto his cock, moaning into her hair and whispering about how good she is, how good she feels, how hot she makes him, before he stills, bites down on her shoulder, comes inside her with a bitten lip and stifled cry. It's these weekend mornings, where Sebastian is tired and languorous and lascivious, fucks her for hours, goes down on her to lick the mess up after they fuck until she can't breathe and her bones ache from coming, doesn't let her leave bed until 2pm and even then it's just to fuck her against the glass tiles in their bathroom. It's that feeling of him on her skin- feels heat pool in her belly when she smells Chanel's Bleu on his coat, on his warm throat against her hot mouth, in the shower steam. 

She puts the angry letter from the building body corporate about the trashed elevator on the kitchen bench, laughs about it everytime she sees it, it stays there for three days until he sees it one afternoon after a read-through and it ends up on the floor when he grabs her waist and hitches her skirt up and bites the insides of her thighs until she scratches her stilettos down his back in angry red lines. She stands two inches taller than him in them but he doesn't care, doesn't care about the mess they make of her dry-clean-only silk skirt, just cares about the way her ankles arch in the shoes the way they do when she's about to come against his mouth, dripping wet til his fingertips smear it on her thighs. 

She shoves him back and he stumbles, laughing, surges back towards her to meet her mouth in a deep kiss while she reaches down to unbuckle his belt, rips open his suit pants, shoves down his boxer briefs. He's already hard; has been hard for awhile, his cock has been leaking, the front of his underwear is damp with it and she can easily stroke him with the precum gathered there, and he hisses into her mouth when she wraps her hand around him slowly, sliding her fingertips up and down, feeling his pulse race. He's fumbling, unbuttoning her shirt and pushing it down her arms, discarding her bra along with it, and he's desperate, aching, tells her in broken Romanian he hasn't fucked her in two days and will actually die if he doesn't, that he will just combust and be no more unless he gets his mouth on hers and his hands on her skin and his cock inside her soon. Leaning his body against hers with his hands on the bench behind her, and he thrusts up into her hand in the close space between them, moaning on every breath, pleading with her to fuck him, to let him fuck her, anything-please-fuck-me-fuck-let-me-come-please, until she takes her hand off his cock and scratches her fingernails down the back of his neck. He can't take it anymore, knows he's making enough noise that the neighbours would hear him begging through the walls and he doesn't give a fuck, seeing her in those heels, knowing her underwear is long gone. He moans into another kiss, mouth slack, when her hand grabs his hair and pulls him closer- actually yanks him by the hair, and he's surprised to realise that judging by his cock twitching even while drunk he's still into that- and he fucks into her, deep, rolling his hips against hers, feeling her tight wet warmth grip his cock and how her body pressed against his, soft skin, soft hair, sharp nails, warm mouth. When she comes, she digs her ankles and those sharp heeled shoes into his back and grinds her hips up off the bench into him, moaning his name, elongated vowels and slurred consonants. He comes inside her shortly after, hot and pulsing and wet, pumps his hips three-four-five-six times more to ride out his orgasm, shudders at the overstimulation but keeps going despite himself. 

He makes a mental note to fuck her in every pair of shoes in that wardrobe, every last pair, even the ones she's smuggled in and thinks he's too silly to notice the pile growing bigger, even the stupid pairs she can't walk in, and he always wondered, sitting on the boyfriend chair in every shoe boutique in New York- "Jesus Christ, why buy the fucking things if you can't even walk in them? Who cares?"- and now he knows. She bought them so he could fuck her while wearing them. He smiles against her throat, her hair tickling his cheek and shoulder, and she looks down at him warily, wondering what he's plotting. Hurricane Sebastian. 

The next day she returns home with a frame, the same size as the ones that house their Baccalaureate degrees stowed away in their little study. She leaves it on the top of the wardrobe, hidden away, goes to bed alone as Sebastian is at a post-audition dinner with some director. 

At midnight he slides under the sheets behind her, kissing each of her shoulder-blades, smelling like Chanel Bleu and toothpaste and warm skin. "We should frame that letter from the body corporate," He mumbles against her skin, laughing, tracing lazy circles with his tongue as she twitches. 

She knows it's not what he's thinking.


End file.
